Hearing Damage
by Lila2
Summary: Rose dies, but Damon has to go on living.


**Title: **"Hearing Damage"

**Lila:** Lila

**Rating:** PG-13

**Character/Pairing:** Damon

**Spoiler:** "The Descent"

**Length:** one-shot

**Summary: **Rose dies, but Damon has to go on living

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs

**Author's Note:** I know, I know: worst. writer. ever. but this popped into my head last night and I couldn't not write it. I am working on the final section of "The Moon Asked the Crow," it's just been harder to put on paper than I originally thought. But no worries, I haven't forgotten it. As for this one…title courtesy of Thom Yorke. Enjoy.

* * *

Stefan finds him with blood on his hands.

It's under his nails and caked into the lines of his palms and his chin is sticky from where it's dried on his skin. He chews absently on a fingernail, eyes sliding closed as the bitter iron sinks into his system.

He hears Stefan long before he has a hope of seeing him. He can feel his brother's eyes on him and even though his back is turned, he can feel the disappointment coming off Stefan in waves.

"Where's the body?" he asks and doesn't bother hiding the disapproval in his voice. A month ago, Damon might have cared, but too much time has passed. There's Elijah and Jules and Klaus and there's Damon Salvatore.

He can run from the others; he can't escape himself.

"I took care of it," he insists and reaches for his scotch but Stefan is quicker. The bottle is smashed against a wall before he can blink, and Stefan is crouched over him, fingers digging into his wrists while his knees lock his hips in place.

"I'm tired of cleaning up your messes," he says and for all his careful control, he can't quite hide the flare of veins pushing against the thin skin of his cheeks. A month ago, Damon would have used it to his advantage, because he's older and stronger and it is his right, but he doesn't have the taste for it.

He's lost enough tonight.

"I told you, I took care of it," he says and pushes his brother away. They've been doing this for two hundred years and Stefan is quick on his feet. He even manages to land before crashing against the wall.

"There are other ways to grieve," Stefan says and for a moment Damon thinks he's going to bridge the gaping distance between them and wrap him in his arms like when they were boys.

Stefan doesn't, because they're not children any longer, but he does look sad and Damon aches for another thing he's lost.

"Stay out of my head." He's spent too much time there already. He doesn't need Stefan poking around too.

"I'm just saying, you don't need to kill someone every time you're hurting. I'm…"

"You're what? Practicing your audition for "Dr. Phil?"

"I'm here. If you need me, I'm here."

He's had enough. He's tired of thinking and he's tired of regretting and he's tired of _feeling_.

He's older in more ways than one and this time he slams his brother into the wall so hard he leaves a Stefan-shaped hole in the plaster. "I'm going to say this once, brother, so listen close: it's not 1864. We are not friends. We share a name and we shared a girl and right now we share a house. Don't make this more than it needs to be."

Stefan has that look on his face like he knows better, like he doesn't believe a word coming out of Damon's own mouth, like he can see right through him to everything he wants to keep hidden. "All I'm saying is that you're better than this, Damon. You know it's true. Just once, try and believe it."

Damon hears the door slam before he even realizes Stefan's gone, but not before he sees the truth:

Stefan is wrong. He didn't regress.

He lost something that mattered to him and he didn't kill anyone Elena loves.

He calls it progress.

* * *

Elena shows up the next day after school.

There are circles under her eyes and an odd kink to her hair, but he doesn't let himself believe she's off-kilter because of him.

Been there, done that.

Klaus wants her throat and Rose tried to rip it out not twenty-four hours before.

He's not stupid enough to think she's carrying him too.

"I'm worried about you," she says and comes to sit beside him.

He's still on the couch, but the scotch is gone. He stopped noticing hours ago and he hasn't bothered getting more.

He's tired of temporary fixes. He craves something permanent.

"I'm fine."

She doesn't touch him but he can feel her eyes on him, dark and warm, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the empty fireplace rather than look into them.

"You're not fine," she says. "I've lost people too, you know. It was…" She stops for a moment and he can hear the sharp intake of breath when it starts in her chest. "It was the worst thing to ever happen to me, but I got through it because I wasn't alone."

He still won't look at her, but the meaning isn't lost on him: she wouldn't tell him about her dead parents if she didn't care.

"I didn't love Rose," he reminds her. He learned that lesson hard and fast after two hundred years of sacrifice and no reward: whatever he thought was love was anything but. "I need you to go, Elena."

"Damon," she sighs. "You need to talk to someone."

He gets in her space, fingers digging into the back of the couch while his knees bump angrily against hers. "I'm going to remind you again, Elena. I am a vampire. I don't grieve. I don't do guilt. I don't _feel_." He leans closer, so close he's almost sure she can feel the veins pulsing against his cheeks. She gulps loudly but doesn't push him away. "You can't fix me, Elena. Stop trying."

He knows it's what she wants, but he can't talk to her. It's her and Katherine and 1864 and the burning, stabbing pain throbbing in his chest because two hundred years later and he still can't have the only thing he truly wants.

Her hands are on his chest and when she shoves lightly he pulls back. "Just talk to someone, okay?"

She leaves it unsaid that it won't be with her.

* * *

It's almost midnight when there's a knock on his door.

He doesn't want to open it, because he's tired of the entire state of Virginia playing grief counselor, but he also doesn't feel like replacing another window.

"Really?"

Alaric smiles sheepishly. "Elena called. I don't want to be here either, but she puts up a good fight."

"I'm out of scotch. And I don't feel like talking."

"I can't promise to understand your pain, but I've been there myself. I at least know what you're going through." He opens his bag and pulls out a bottle of Macallan 18 and a copy of "The Hangover." "I brought the good stuff."

Damon opens the door and lets him in.

* * *

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